


get them hysterical (keep them awake)

by arkhamcycle



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Durmstrang Viktor, Gryffindor Yuuri, M/M, also kind of katsuki yuuri and the prisoner of azkaban, katsuki yuuri and the goblet of fire basically, lots of harry potter references, magic battles and stuff, schrodinger's veela heritage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-11-21 19:27:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11364063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arkhamcycle/pseuds/arkhamcycle
Summary: Yuuri Katsuki is entering his 7th and final year at Hogwarts. All he wants is one last season as Gryffindor Quidditch captain and Seeker before he's dropped into the professional world, but his plans are disrupted with the announcement that this year, Hogwarts is hosting the 187th Triwizard Tournament— and this time nobody is going to die. Really.Yuuri is shocked to find himself submitting his name to the mystical Goblet of Fire, and even more shocked when he's chosen as Hogwarts' champion— competing against international Quidditch superstar Viktor Nikiforov from Durmstrang, and high-strung Yuri Plisetsky from Beauxbatons, who strictly speaking should never even have entered.The Tournament is dangerous enough as it is, but as it progresses it's clear that a sinister agenda is at play behind the scenes, as someone begins directly influencing the challenges. Someone who has it out for one of the champions...Title from Halloween Blues by the Fratellis??? for some reason because I couldn't think of anything else.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> so i saw all that durmstrang!viktor fanart and fell in love with it, also thought of yuuri with a british accent and fell in love with that... this is the result i guess
> 
> also i'm an american and have aprox. no understanding of british slang so i might mess up in that regard sorry

Saturday, September first. A boy on a train is about to eat a frog.

Not a real frog—chocolate, of course, and a feisty one. It hops over to the other side of the compartment before Yuuri can grab it, and then out the open window into the station. Yuuri sighs softly. It’s alright, though, he tells himself; he’s an athlete, after all, and should really watch what he eats.

He pries the sticky foil card from the back of the box with his well-filed nails. It’s Harry Potter, waving politely and grinning at him from within the card’s gilded frame. Yuuri sighs again—it seems like Harry is all he gets anymore in Chocolate Frogs. Not that Chocolate Frog cards are the most important things in the world to him, but it would be nice to see a new face sometime.

Harry grins some more before turning out of view. His Auror’s robes, Yuuri thinks, make him look something like a Muggle entirely too invested in the alternative music scene. Yuuri shoves the card into the gap behind the empty seat cushion next to him. Maybe the trolley witch will come around again after the train starts up.

A knuckle raps against the sliding glass door to the compartment. Yuuri turns his head to see Phichit, sliding the door open and ducking inside. The Hufflepuff prefect tips his luggage into the overhead storage and sits down next to his friend.

“Why not sit in the prefects’ compartment?” Yuuri asks.

“You know bloody well I’ve never sat in the prefects’ compartment,” Phichit responds lightly. “But it’s like you forget every year.”

“Every year could be the year you change your mind, decide to turn over a new leaf.”

“I prefer you over the prefects, thanks.” Phichit slides down the seat and rests his legs on the one opposite. “Anyway—no ‘Hello?’ No ‘How was your summer?’ No ‘Wow, you’ve gotten really fit in the three months I haven’t seen you?’”

“Wow, you’ve gotten really fit in the three months I haven’t seen you,” Yuuri teases.

“ _Thanks._ Has the trolley witch come around already?” Phichit asks, motioning to the empty Chocolate Frog box.

“Yeah—she’ll be around again, though—I’ll get you something if you want—“

The witch comes back just minutes after the train pulls out of Kings’ Cross. Thoughts of his last year as Gryffindor Quidditch Captain stay Yuuri’s hand from getting another Chocolate Frog, but he shares a pack of Bertie Botts’ Every Flavor Beans with Phichit, who has an eerily accurate way of delegating all the bad beans to Yuuri. By the time the ride is almost over, Yuuri has tasted lye soap, sour milk, blood, and something that he can’t identify but vaguely connects to tarantula innards.

They arrive just as the sun sets. Yuuri watches dark, pink light flaring around the stony spires of Hogwarts out the mullioned window. The castle is black against the vibrant light, featureless and grand. Yuuri smiles weakly as the train approaches its final stop.

This is the last time. The last time feeling the thrill of the beginning of a new year as the wind ruffles his hair, the last time watching jittering first years cross their legs nervously under the Sorting Hat. Not his last train ride, for there will be the one back, but he’ll spend that one crying, he knows it.

This is his last year at Hogwarts.

To think he’s only got a _year left._ Yuuri drops from the train, luggage in hand, and starts towards the carriages. People have said in the past that they’re pulled by deathly, bestial horses, invisible to most. There’s a girl a year below him that claims to see them. Yuuri has always wondered how he should feel sorry for her.

The thing is, he thinks, as he boards a carriage with Phichit and it trundles off, is that he has no idea what to do after the year is over. He’s jealous sometimes of Phichit, who has a solid plan—to jump-start a wizarding version of the Muggle Internet. Yuuri has no idea how his friend intends to do this, but given how passionate Phichit is about the idea and how much progress he’s made on parchment he’s likely to succeed. He’s already roped several other seventh-years into helping him with it—Seung-Gil Lee, for one, and Leo de la Iglesia. An offer was extended to Yuuri, but he declined for the moment, saying he’d give it time to think.

Almost _everyone_ Yuuri knows seems to have their post-school life planned out. Yuuko and Takeshi are moving to Japan to get in on the wand-making industry there. Guang-Hong is going into the Ministry—wants to be an Unspeakable, despite having no more knowledge than anyone else about what it is that bunch does. JJ is going pro with Quidditch, and has already received offers from two of the three major teams in Canada, and several from British teams as well.

What is there for _him_ , though? Yuuri always assumed Quidditch, as over the years that’s the only thing he’s stood out at, but he’s never been less certain than now. Sure, he has offers, as many as JJ. Puddlemere United, notably, and the Bats. The Arrows, too, to whom Yuuri has always taken a liking. But—

He just isn’t _good_ enough.

The World Cup was this summer, in Spain. Russia against South Africa. Yuuri remembers sitting in the best seats his parents could afford, right behind Russia’s goal hoop. Watching the players fly out in formation above him, Keeper first, then Chasers, then Beaters, then the Seeker—Viktor Nikiforov. His eyes were glued to Nikiforov the whole time, watching the Russian national team’s youngest player in history as he darted around like the wind and broom and height were nothing to him, making the most dangerous feints Yuuri had ever seen and at one point standing up on top of his broom and jumping to reach for the Snitch. The way he flew was beautiful in a human sense. Sensual and flowing and rich, every movement thoughtfully free. Even a Muggle could appreciate it.

(Though, admittedly, Yuuri paid close attention to Viktor for more than just his flying.)

Viktor is _Yuuri’s age._ Seventeen, on his country’s national team, winning the World Cup for them—when Yuuri can’t even make the Junior Nationals. Granted, the Junior Nationals kids are _never_ from Hogwarts—they all seem to come from some school down south where academics take a backseat to Quidditch—but Yuuri doubts that he can catch up to them on the senior level with all the extra training they’ve had.

What’s being captain and Seeker of a Hogwarts house team when there’s a kid his age setting records? Yuuri is nothing compared to that. Even if he signs to Puddlemere, or the Bats—hell, even if he goes to the World damned Cup for England—he’ll never be a real competitor. Always on the bench, never accomplishing anything for his teammates. It’s what he knows has happened to Hogwarts kids in the past. Yuuri wonders if it’ll happen to JJ. He laughs at the thought of JJ on a bench.

The carriage stops. Yuuri hoists his luggage off the back and leaps off, Phichit following. They walk together under the heavily carved archway to the front doors. There’s time before the Sorting to haul their luggage up to their respective common rooms, and they do so, returning to the Great Hall after.

Yuuri settles at the front end of the Gryffindor table, across from Phichit at Hufflepuff. He twists around in his seat and leans over the walkway between the tables to whisper to his friend.

“The Gryffindor password is _almond bark,_ ” he giggles. “How do they come up with these?”

“I imagine they’re running out of ideas. Hufflepuff’s got a better solution with the barrel-tapping, I think,” Phichit responds in an equally secretive whisper. Best not to get caught discussing common room passwords—or, in Hufflepuff’s case, rhythmic barrel-tapping sequences.

The Sorting begins soon after. The Hat’s song is nothing shocking, but at least _it_ isn’t running out of ideas like whoever decides the Gryffindor password, and watching the first years shuffle in terror up to be Sorted is always fun. There are no shockers _there_ either.

It makes Yuuri wonder, though, about the whole process of Sorting. Often Yuuri has doubted the Hat’s accuracy, seeing as a person changes a lot in seven years. The thing put _him_ in Gryffindor, after all.  And, indeed, put Phichit in Hufflepuff, despite his intense devotion to a task so arduous it apparently requires him to take N.E.W.T level Arithmancy.

After the Sorting comes the speech. Celestino steps up to the gilded podium, wind-blue robes flowing, hair flowing in kind, chin as aggressively clefted as ever. The Great Hall falls silent as Celestino amplifies his voice with a wave of his wand.

“I would like to start this year at Hogwarts by extending a warm welcome to all of our students, new and returning, and by wishing all of you a good year and good luck.“ A pause for hearty applause. When it dies, Celestino goes into his typical ramble, touching on all the usual rules—no going into the Forbidden Forest, no smuggling-in of Weasley products, no roaming the halls after dark. Then—the first shocker of the night.

“I’m sure it will pain some of you greatly to know that, due to certain circumstances, the inter-house Quidditch tournament will not be taking place this year.”

The Hall explodes in commotion. Yuuri’s face falls slack in shock. His last year of Hogwarts Quidditch, possibly of Quidditch in general if he doesn’t go pro—just gone? Like that? Suddenly he is no longer a captain, no longer a Seeker, but just a student, completely average and unremarkable without his sport.

Without regular Quidditch games, without _practice,_ even, his skills are sure to deteriorate. It almost smashes his chances of making it on a real team. Of making it to the world level.

(Of ever seeing Viktor Nikiforov again.)

Surely there are others who feel the same? Certainly JJ, Yuuri thinks. Maybe Yuuri and the Slytherin captain can work out a series of unofficial matches.

Celestino raises a hand to quiet the ruckus. “I understand that to those of you invested in the sport, this is upsetting news. However, the circumstances surrounding it will perhaps lift your spirits.

“Doubtless some of you know already of the event which is to take place at Hogwarts this year, despite, and perhaps because of, our best efforts to keep it secret. But, for the majority who do not, I am pleased to announce that Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry will be hosting the One-Hundred-and-Eighty-Seventh iteration of the Triwizard Tournament.”

Gasps run along the tables. Yuuri gasps too, and shares a glance with Phichit, clearly equally shocked. Given that historically the Tournament has resulted in death—and that the last attempt to revive it resulted in not only death but the unfortunate re-introduction of the world and Voldemort—it’s insane, Yuuri thinks, that the Ministry of Magic would allow this kind of thing to happen. He feels cheated, being forced to give up his last year of Quidditch to play accessory to this lunatic stunt.

Celestino’s continuing speech quells none of Yuuri’s anger. The headmaster explains the premise, assures the gathered students that this time, nothing whatsoever is going to go wrong, _really_. Yuuri doubts it, though. Even in a peaceful time such as this—the 21 st century is no place at all for a medieval death championship.

“Our friends from the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic and the Durmstrang Institute will be arriving at the end of October. Until then, classes will continue as normal. Now, with that said—I believe I’ve kept you all waiting long enough for your food. _Ciao ciao!_ ”

With those words, food appears on the heavy oaken tables, and conversation rises like steam from a sliced slab of ham. Yuuri turns away from Phichit to eat, filling his plate with meat pie and a thick helping of steamed vegetables. He washes it down with a hearty goblet of chilled pumpkin juice, and allows himself a treacle tart since it’s the start of the year. By the time he’s done—for he eats slowly, since savoring each bite makes him less inclined to overeat—the feast is done, and it’s time to head down to the common rooms. Yuuri bumps fists with Phichit, who rouses the new first-year Hufflepuffs and directs them off, and then exits the Great Hall with Takeshi, the male prefect for Gryffindor.

Yuuri opens the door for the group and squeezes through the portrait hole into the common room. It’s very warm, as always, and very red. The same beat-up couches, the same streaming flags, the same roaring fire, the same God-awful floral rugs. After this year ends—he won’t see any of it again. That prospect pains him. The painted sorcerer to the left watches the students condescendingly from his portrait.

Yuuri’s tired already, but he stays on the couch long enough for Leo to badger him about the World Cup, and then for everyone else who didn’t know he went to catch on and start badgering him about the World Cup too. Yuuri tells them what he remembers, most of which is Viktor. How Viktor jumped at least a foot off his broom and twisted to yank the Snitch from under the South African Seeker Govender’s nose, how he fell back and looped a leg around the broom to keep himself in the air as it sped down the pitch. How Yuuri was so worried that he would fall that he bit through the neckline of his shirt and ruined it.

As the evening crawls on it seems every Gryffindor that isn’t asleep is huddled around Yuuri’s couch. He tells them how Russia won quickly, how both teams’ Chasers, Keepers, and Beaters were of near-equal skill but how Viktor made the difference. Some of the gathered crowd is certainly more interested in Viktor specifically than the game, and Yuuri obliges them the best he can with some of the campground gossip he heard, how Viktor’s hair when let down falls to his waist, and how he doesn’t ever cut it because he’s some-part Veela. Yuuri puts little stock in these theories himself, but if it’s what the people want, it’s what the people will get.

A third-year girl presses close to the front of the couch. “I heard he goes to Durmstrang. D’you think he’ll be over here for the Tournament?” she asks excitedly.

“I have no idea—I’m not his biographer; I don’t know everything there is to know about his life. I just saw him at the World Cup,” Yuuri responds.

“Well you know how he’s _half-Veela_ —“

“Nobody knows that but him; it’s just what some people were saying. It’s probably not true. If he were half-anything they probably wouldn’t have let him into Durmstrang.”

The conversation drifts back strictly to the Cup from there. There isn’t much left to tell besides a hotly-disputed instance of bumphing that saw the whole right side of the stadium ducking under the seats in front of them to protect themselves from Russian Beater Goraya’s errant Bludger.

After that Yuuri retires up the stairs to the boys’ dormitory.  He slides his trunk out from underneath with a dusty whoosh, and flips it open to reveal a poster of Viktor, waving prettily and shaking his tied-up hair about. Yuuri bought it at the Cup, and wanted to have it signed at the time, but couldn’t find Viktor or any of the Russian team anywhere and gave up. _Maybe if Viktor comes to Hogwarts for the Tournament, he’ll sign it then,_ Yuuri thinks as he charms the poster to the bureau beside the bed.

The thought stops him. Viktor, coming to the Tournament. If he does indeed attend Durmstrang, surely they’ll send him over to enter as a champion. And then—Yuuri would be able to meet him, to talk to him. Yuuri wonders what it would be like to have so much as a small conversation with Viktor—or to take classes with him, for Yuuri is sure the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students will have to continue their studies somehow. Picturing Viktor off a broom, sitting at a desk and taking Potions notes, for instance, is so odd it’s jarring. A comet sort of boy like him doesn’t belong on the ground.

“You’ve got a poster too?” someone asks. Yuuri startles and spins around to face Takeshi, a bemused grin lining the prefect’s face. “Yuuko has that same one. She showed me on the train.”

“Uh, yeah—I got it at the World Cup. They had little figurines too, but I was worried I’d step on him, so.” Yuuri laughs awkwardly, and considers removing the poster and shoving it under his bed, and possibly shoving himself under his bed too. This was a mistake.

“You like him for just the Quidditch?” Takeshi smiles wryly. “Because Yuuko sure doesn’t.”

Yuuri blushes and mutters something that isn’t quite a protest, and turns around to take Viktor down.

Takeshi chuckles. “Hey, man, keep your dream boy up there. Just having a laugh. Anyways—I’m going to bed!”

“G’night,” Yuuri mumbles.

“’Night!”

After Takeshi is settled in bed, Yuuri hangs a spare robe over the bureau, covering Viktor. He’ll take the poster down in the morning, but for now he just wants to sleep.

Class goes on as usual for the next months. Yuuri’s N.E.W.T levels are much less difficult than they seemed this time sixth year, though he isn’t particularly passionate about any of them. Last year on an uninspired whim he chose Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, and Potions, with a vague notion that if Quidditch didn’t work out he could always go into the Ministry. Defense Against the Dark Arts is his best, but he’s nowhere close to remarkable, and even that class passes slowly sometimes.

He manages to scrape together a few Quidditch matches on the weekends, mostly just Gryffindors, Slytherins, and a few scattered members of the other two houses. The Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff captains have both graduated now, leaving the players there leaderless, and while Yuuri and JJ alike have tried to rally them there are still rarely enough people to form more than two small teams. At least they’re still playing, though, and most of his old group is there.

By the end of October the halls are alight with whispers about the Tournament. There are several popular themes, one being who the Hogwarts champion will be, another being whether everyone’s really going to survive this time. Yuuri gathers that JJ is a favorite for both being the champion and surviving being the champion, which seems a possible and promising outcome. There’s just about nothing JJ can’t do well that Yuuri’s seen.

The other major topic of conversation is Viktor. Rumor has spread quickly that Viktor is a Durmstrang kid, and so most everyone seems to believe he’ll be the Durmstrang champion.  Yuuri isn’t sure, though, whether Viktor has said anything about where he attends school in any of his interviews—and Yuuri has definitely read lots of his interviews. Given the general location of Durmstrang it isn’t impossible that Viktor is a pupil, but Yuuri tells himself that it’s just a fleeting thought, and not to be disappointed when the foreign students arrive and Viktor isn’t among them.

October 30th rolls around sooner than expected. The castle has been thoroughly scrubbed and decked out in full for Halloween, and the air and the wind are higher and sharper now. But there’s still no sign of Durmstrang or Beauxbatons, though the excited whispering has reached a crescendo. Yuuri is beginning to think the other schools have realized the idiocy of it all and bailed last-minute.

By mid-morning, however, it’s clear _something’s_ about to happen. Even the teachers seem anxious, distracted. Professor Okukawa in particular is on edge during Transfiguration, pacing about the front of the room and barely paying attention at all to her students’ attempts to untransfigure the locust-winged butterflies she’s given them.

The hours pass exponentially slower. Yuuri finds that he can’t keep his mind off the possible impending arrival of Viktor. He’s gone much too far into this delusion that Viktor even attends Durmstrang at all—for all Yuuri knows Viktor goes to Koldovstoretz, which on further thought, seems a bit more likely. Still Yuuri finds that sweat gathers on his palms and soaks his socks, that his stomach twists. As evening settles he isn’t sure what he’s more nervous about: that he’ll see Viktor again… or that he won’t see Viktor at all.

Yuuri’s watch reads quarter-to-six. The great bell rings then, thrumming through the stones—it’s time. He quickly stashes the Potions essay he’s been working on with his quill and ink under the overstuffed chair he’s been sitting in, and dashes out the portrait hole, adjusting his red-gold tie and buttons as he runs. Bunches of Gryffindors follow him out and down the spiraling stairs from Gryffindor Tower to the entrance hall, where Professor Okukawa is drawing them into lines by seniority, prefects in front.

Yuuri lines up behind Takeshi and hurriedly smooths back his hair from his face. He wipes his glasses in the folds of his robe and replaces them on the bridge of his nose. He finds himself wishing suddenly that he had contact lenses instead—he looks much sharper without the glasses, but his mother generally doubts the safety of anything Muggle-made.

Professor Okukawa gives her Gryffindors a quick once-over before sending them out and down the steps, where they organize into neat rows by year. Celestino and the rest of the staff stand in front. Yuuri glances to his left to see Phichit with the Hufflepuffs, staring out anxiously over the Black Lake. It’s a cool, dark evening—the sun has long since set—and the lake’s gentle ripples shine under the moon.

“Oi—Phichit!” Yuuri shouts. “Have you heard anything? They’re coming now, right?”

“Yeah,” says Phichit, eyes still on the lake. “I think someone said Durmstrang has a boat or something.”

“How? There’s no river from the lake, is there?”

“Well they’ve got _magic_ haven’t they—“

A sudden commotion bubbles. The rows stir, and robed arms raise to point. Yuuri follows the lifted fingers to see a gleaming blur over the Forbidden Forest, which grows closer and closer until its shape is obvious—it’s a massive carriage, drawn by a team of gargantuan winged horses. _Surely that’s Beauxbatons_ , Yuuri thinks. From what he knows of Durmstrang, it doesn’t seem the type of school to travel by flying carriage.

The carriage lands, and Celestino announces it as, indeed, Beauxbatons. The ice-blue doors open with a woody _click._  A boy with long blond hair emerges, wearing robes of pale gray—for a wild moment Yuuri thinks it’s Viktor, but of course it isn’t, his hair’s too short. He shunts a set of short stairs down to the ground.

A hawkish woman, face elegantly painted, descends to the ground, the blond boy stepping behind. A whole slew of Beauxbatons students follow. They crowd hesitantly around their carriage, directing curious stares at the Hogwarts students. The blond boy huddles near the woman—presumably the headmistress.

Celestino walks to her and shakes her ring-laden hand firmly. “Welcome to Hogwarts, Madam Baranovskaya,” he says with a smile. The woman’s jewelry jingles in the wind.

_Baranovskaya?_ Yuuri wonders. That doesn’t sound incredibly French to him—but then again, his own headmaster is Italian, and any wizarding school worth its salt is international nowadays, so he thinks nothing of it.

“Thank you—you may call me Lilia, Mister…”

“Cialdini,” provides Celestino. “But call me Celestino.”

Lilia smiles, her hawkish face warming.  “Certainly, Celestino.” She turns out to face the lake, hands on hips. “And I suppose Durmstrang will be late—“

The lake rumbles and swirls. Yuuri scans it carefully—there’s no sign of a boat—

Two tall masts rise from the swirls, water gushing down from them and spilling onto the great wooden deck that follows. Soon the whole ship has emerged from the depths—a great square-rigged galleon glowing a soft white through its portholes. It reminds Yuuri of something he read once in [a Muggle book](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Going_Postal)—sunken ships that travel still on deep-sea currents just above the ocean bed, carrying the skeletons of their dead crewmen.

Yuuri’s nervous sweats start up again as the ship’s anchor drops and gangplank lowers. The emerging line of people is too far away to scrutinize at first, but as they draw closer Yuuri sees that they’re shrouded in heavy brown furs.

Yuuri doesn’t, however, see Viktor.

The headmaster, a gruff and balding man, positions his students as far as possible from the Beauxbatons group, and scowls subtly at Lilia. There are still more coming off the ship, but the gathered Durmstrang kids are blocking Yuuri’s view—he cranes his neck to look—

There, getting onto the ground now. The gentle glow from inside the ship highlights the silvery threads of their hair for a moment, but then they leave the distant light before Yuuri can get a glimpse of their face. His soul shivers with terrified hope.

Yuuri edges towards Takeshi to see around the mass of students. As Celestino moves to greet the headmaster—“Welcome to Hogwarts, Master Feltsman”—he obscures the path up, but Yuuri can see someone walking between the winged boars over the gate—they approach, face in heavy shadow—they reach the group…

It’s Viktor.

Yuuri’s heart can’t decide between soaring from his chest or falling through his gut, so it stays in place and trembles erratically. As Viktor takes his place next to Feltsman, giving Lilia a wary side-eye, the Hogwarts kids whisper excitedly among themselves. His hair is wrapped up in a bun, and his nose and cheeks are ruddy and wind-bit, but he looks beautiful as Yuuri has ever seen him.

He catches Yuuri’s gaze for a moment over the wind, and smiles politely. His teeth glint a bit in the light. Yuuri looks away.

The students part for Celestino as he sweeps up the steps. “Our guests first, please—come along to the Great Hall; I assure you it’s much warmer there—“

Durmstrang and Beauxbatons file, in that order, into straight, neat lines and process into the entrance hall. Students on both sides of the part turn to not-so-subtly watch Viktor as he passes them. Yuuri turns too, to watch Viktor’s fur cape swish behind him. It’s incredibly heavy—Durmstrang must be cold, wherever it is.

After the last of Beauxbatons have gone, the Hogwarts kids fold in on themselves and push in an orderless mass up the stairs. Phichit meets Yuuri just inside the entrance hall, looking awed.

“You—you saw him, right?” he asks, breathless. The crowd around them talks of Viktor, wondering if he’ll sign their bags or robes or skin, and where he’ll sit.

“He _looked at me_. I mean, right at me—and smiled—does he recognize me from the Cup, do you think, or was that just an awkward sort of ‘oh-hey-I-notice-you’re-staring-at-me’ thing and now he thinks I’m a creeper or something—“ Yuuri rambles.

“Wow, that’s—“ Phichit pauses as they reach the Great Hall. “Hold on, I’ve got to get to the table. My House needs me in these trying times.”

And Phichit is off to corral the Hufflepuffs.

Yuuri starts towards the Gryffindor table and takes his seat next to Takeshi. He watches as the guests sort themselves out among the tables: Most of Durmstrang is at Slytherin, and most of Beauxbatons have squeezed in among the Ravenclaws. Yuuri can barely see Viktor over the heads of everyone else, but it looks like he’s been shunted to the front in the general vicinity of the Slytherin Quidditch team, with two other Durmstrang students on either side. Yuuri is sure this is a strategic maneuver on Viktor’s part—the Slytherins and several Ravenclaws seem to be trying to crowd in his space. As Yuuri watches, more Durmstrang students slide in around Viktor, increasing the size of his protective guard.

The staff file in then, along with two women in Ministry robes who Yuuri assumes have something to do with the Tournament. After they take their seats with a short welcome from Celestino, a whole host of lush food appears on the table in front of Yuuri—wheels of cream-white cheese, baskets of bread, bowls of steaming pasta with beef. Yuuri watches Takeshi fill a whole plate with just the pasta.

“It’s stroganoff,” he says. “I had some in London; it’s got mushrooms in it—“ And the rest of his words are indistinguishable around the forkful of stroganoff he’s stuffed in his mouth.

Yuuri scans the rest of the Hall over his shoulder to see the same selection of foreign food everywhere. He watches the blond boy from Beauxbatons, who looks much younger than the rest of the envoy from his school, eat a large pastry-type thing from a platter in two bites, and then grab another.

Behind him, the whole front quarter of the Slytherin table is crimson—it’s Durmstrang students, their furs removed. It’s as though every single one of them (save for one at the Ravenclaw table) has migrated to sit around Viktor. Viktor himself has his back to Yuuri, but he looks to be in conversation with a black-haired boy next to him.

Yuuri turns back to his food and takes a pastry from a platter, which turns out to be filled with rich meat and vegetables. He ends up eating three with a small glass of white wine, which is the first alcohol Yuuri has known to be served to them. He sees a first-year down the table try to take a glass—it turns to pumpkin juice the moment she touches it.

As the students finish with their meals, Celestino begins to speak once more, introducing the two Ministry women as the heads of the Department of International Magical Cooperation and of Magical Games and Sports, respectively, and saying then that those wishing to enter as prospective champions for the Tournament may do so within the next 24 hours, but only if they’re 17, to which there is some assorted grumbling.

Celestino now looks on as a large casket is wheeled out in front of the staff table. The Hall hushes up in curiosity. He walks to it and taps it with his wand—it opens to reveal a silver goblet, from which white flames spring up, reflected in the facets of several large rubies. Celestino closes the casket and places the goblet atop it.

“This,” he announces, “is the Goblet of Fire. Those wishing to enter the Tournament may write their names on a sheet of paper and cast it into the Goblet. Tomorrow night the names of the three champions will emerge. Anyone who enters must be fully prepared to see the tournament through to the end.” Everyone stares, enraptured, at the spinning flames. “There will be only one champion per school. In the event that additional champions are inadvertently selected, the matter will be settled by our lovely Ministry officials. You may not enter for another student, and you, again, may not enter if you are under seventeen. An Age Line will be drawn around the Goblet—and trust me when I say you don’t want to be caught crossing it.

“Whoever emerges as the winner, as determined by our panel of five judges, will be rewarded with possession of the Triwizard Cup—“ he uncovers a gleaming crystal trophy and sets it on the staff table—“one-thousand Galleons, and, arguably, eternal glory.”

With those words, they’re dismissed for the night. The visiting students leave through the entrance hall—going back to their vessels, Yuuri assumes.

Yuuri retrieves his Potions essay from under the chair upon returning to the common room. He’s much too tired now to keep working on it. Luckily it’s Friday, so he has a whole weekend to finish. He trudges up the stairs to bed, sliding off his tie as he does so.

Once he’s changed into his pajamas he realizes that Viktor is still on his bureau. Yuuri removes the spare cloak to see him pouting and twirling a loose strand of hair around his finger.

“I’ve got the real thing here, you know,” Yuuri tells him. “I don’t need you.”

Poster-Viktor says nothing.

Yuuri undoes the sticking charm holding the poster to the wood, and shoves it under his trunk.

He dreams that night of moonlight on silvery hair—and of a man in rags huddled in the rotting dark.

The latter wakes him. There was something horrible about it, the memory of which fades as Yuuri’s consciousness flows back to him. Like a scream—no, the build-up to a scream, the cloying tension. Yuuri remembers flies, buzzing around somewhere in the void. Nesting in his skin.

His alarm clock reads 5:30. That leaves him more than an hour until breakfast—but there’s no way he can go back to sleep after the dream he’s had. He feels fresh and awake besides. Rain flutters against the tower’s windows, and birds chatter through the cold sunrise outside.

He pulls on a shirt and pants, throwing a cloak over for the rain. He realizes that he’s forgotten to organize a match with JJ for today—maybe he’ll have the chance at breakfast, though there won’t be many people there for something so last-minute.

_Maybe I could invite Viktor_ , Yuuri wonders idly. But of course not—Viktor has no use spending time with the likes of him.

Yuuri finds himself grabbing his bag, leaving the common room, and walking in the general direction of the Great Hall, if only to stretch his legs. He might sit there a while and watch the rain fall over the enchanted ceiling, he thinks, or go out to the courtyard and read or work on that pesky Potions essay. It’s on the variations in validity of Golpalott’s Third Law, which are so confusing that they might as well make the whole Law useless, but perhaps a change of environment will do Yuuri well.

As Yuuri reaches the Great Hall he notices JJ striding confidently up the center aisle. _Perfect_ , he thinks— _I can get that match going now._ Yuuri turns into the Hall and speeds up, bag jangling behind him. “Hey—“ he calls, “JJ—“

But JJ doesn’t hear, instead walking right up to the front of the Hall—past the Age Line, straight to the Goblet. He draws a scrap of parchment from his pocket, folds it, and casts it into the flames.

They flare and sputter before quieting down. JJ whirls around, satisfied grin on his face, and crosses back the way he came. Yuuri tries to get his attention as he passes, but to no avail. Ah, well. He can just wait for breakfast.

The Goblet catches Yuuri’s attention, suddenly. It isn’t as though it’s _hard_ to enter—JJ just did it in mere seconds—it would be a good conversation starter for breakfast, something to write home to his parents about—it isn’t as though the Goblet would ever actually _choose_ him…

But if it did…

He imagines wild applause ringing from the stands around the Quidditch pitch, but not just from Gryffindors, from _everyone_. He imagines Celestino handing him the Cup and the thousand Galleons—enough money to take a gap year before signing just to train, enough to keep his parents’ London bed and breakfast in the black. He imagines having his named carved in a little gold plaque and hung up over a staircase for everyone to see…

Yuuri snaps out of it. _Anyone who enters must be fully prepared to see the tournament through to the end,_ he remembers. It would be dangerous, more dangerous than Yuuri could probably handle, and he would end up doing nothing other than making a fool of himself.

Crimson flashes through his periphery—it’s Viktor. Yuuri bolts backwards and nearly trips over the Ravenclaw table.

He’s coming up to put his name in, no doubt. Yuuri can’t help but stare as Viktor glides past him to the Goblet. Even the way he _walks_ is alluring, delicate and calculated and powerful, and he moves with such determined force that his loose black cloak has slid down over his shoulders.

There’s nobody else in the Hall save for Viktor and Yuuri. Yuuri blushes a bit when he realizes this. He could very well just _say something_ to Viktor now, how much he admires Viktor’s flying, and nobody would be around to hear. He could ask for an autograph, even. And Viktor might—might say something _back—_

Viktor’s done it now, dropped his little slip of paper in, and the fire flares. He turns—

Yuuri freezes. Viktor is looking straight at him now. He isn’t sure if Viktor is sizing him up as a competitor or disturbed by how obviously flustered Yuuri is at the sight of him. Probably the latter. What does Yuuri do now? What does he say to stop Viktor from thinking of him as no more than an obsessive, lovestruck fan? Does Viktor think Yuuri’s been waiting for him here? Oh, damn, he probably _does—_

“You are entering?” Viktor asks. His voice is deep and dulcet and heavily accented, and it saps such energy from every single cell of Yuuri’s body that he can suddenly barely stand.

Yuuri nods. Of _course_ that’s why he’s here, why else would he be? How nice of Viktor to set him straight on that fact. How nice of Viktor to speak to him at all— His jaw slackens.

“Oh,” says Viktor. “yes. Sorry—I’ll—“

He side-steps away from the Goblet to give Yuuri room, a move much less graceful than Yuuri has come to expect from him. It dawns on Yuuri that besides the cloak, Viktor is wearing all Muggle clothes—a red shirt. Pants, tight on his thighs especially. The realization brings sudden heat to Yuuri's cheeks.  _His legs are so strong, I bet,_ Yuuri thinks, and he is drawn by a silvery rope around his ribs to the Goblet.

He doesn’t have any paper ready, but that’s no worry, there’s plenty of loose-leaf in his bag. Yuuri tears off a piece and scribbles _Yuuri Katsuki—Hogwarts_ on it with an inkless quill, folds it, and slides it over the Goblet’s rim, thumb brushing over a ruby. The fire rises in acceptance.

Viktor smiles at him and gives two thumbs up before leaving the Hall.

Yuuri collapses onto the bench of the Ravenclaw table and stays there until breakfast. At one point another Durmstrang boy comes up to enter, hunching in over his paper as if trying to keep its contents secret. He watches Yuuri warily on his way out.

When breakfast finally rolls around Yuuri makes his way to the proper table. He hasn’t made any progress on the essay—he’s been thinking of nothing but the stupidity of his decision. Just because Viktor happened to be there—just because the atmosphere was a little _awkward—_ didn’t mean he had to risk being forced into some kind of three-way death trap.

Phichit sits down behind him.

“He’s a Veela, I swear,” Yuuri tells him without a second thought. “I mean, he’s _got_ to be—“

Phichit laughs. “Who, Viktor? No, mate, I think you just fancy him.”

“No—I was in the Hall earlier and he was in here putting his name in the cup thing and we were the only ones and then he asked me if _I_ was entering and I said yes and he was just standing there so I _did it,_ ” Yuuri stammers, breathless. “I fancied Yuuko back in fourth year and she never made me do anything like _that!_ It’s some kind of—magic thing he’s got.”

“Oh, you put your name in?” Phichit asks excitedly. He claps Yuuri on the back. “All _right!”_ Then he stands and lifts one foot on top of the table bench. “Guys—Yuuri put his name in the Goblet!”

There’s raucous applause and some scattered whistles from Gryffindor and Hufflepuff alike.  Yuuri smiles awkwardly.  

Phichit sits back down again. “You’d be one hell of a champion, Yuuri,” he reassures his friend. “Trust me. You’re a better wizard than you think.”

As breakfast ends, Yuuri notices Phichit slip furtively away to the Goblet and enter his name.

Yuuri thinks on Phichit’s words over the course of the day, during the Quidditch match he does eventually manage to arrange. He’s not as good of a wizard as JJ, or Phichit, or Yuuko, who he knows is entering as well. Or Seung-Gil, who hasn’t said anything about entering, but has almost definitely done it already.

The match becomes less of a match and more of a tournament. Contrary to what Yuuri thought earlier, more players than usual show—and it’s clear that everyone’s feeling particularly competitive. They take a recess for lunch and then resume playing well into the evening, until it’s time to head to the Great Hall for dinner—and for the champions’ names to be announced.

The Hall sounds loud with excited conversation during the meal. The Ministry women are eating with the staff again, and the Goblet has been taken off its casket and placed on the staff table next to Celestino, to prevent any last-minute entries. Phichit squeezes Yuuri’s shoulder when the headmaster stands and the Hall quiets—wishing him luck, though Yuuri knows Phichit badly wants to be chosen. For his friend’s sake he hopes that’s what happens. Really, he hopes anyone’s name rather than his comes out of the Goblet.

Celestino raises the Goblet from the table, walks around, and returns it to the casket. “The Goblet,” he announces, “after twenty-four hours of deliberation, is now ready to determine the three school champions.” He adjusts it on the casket. “Champions, please proceed to the room behind the staff table once your names are called. Any minute now…”

The Goblet’s fire leaps and twists into a deep red. The Hall holds its collective breath as a single slip of paper emerges into the air, mildly charred at the edges. Celestino catches it with his thumb and forefinger.

“For Durmstrang: Viktor Nikiforov!”

This is no surprise to anyone. Viktor stands readily, seeming calm and prepared, and strides to the front of the Hall to much fanfare from his fellow Durmstrang students, sitting in the same protective detail at the front half of the Slytherin table.

The second champion is revealed as one Yuri Plisetsky. It’s the young-looking blond boy with the long hair. He rises and slides from his seat to mumbles of confusion and scattered applause from Beauxbatons.

Yuuri notices that Feltsman looks near furious—his face is red and jaw clenched, and he glares at Lilia the whole time Plisetsky is making his way up to the staff table. Many of the Durmstrang students have similar looks of anger on their faces, but several others seem incredibly concerned. The boy sitting at the Ravenclaw table, in fact, is the only one who appears to have no strong emotional reaction to the Beauxbatons champion.

Yuuri nudges Phichit. “What’s with Feltsman?” he asks in a whisper. “Look—he’s all pissed off—“

Before Phichit can comment, though, the fire turns red again. Yuuri’s innards twist at the sight. It won’t be him; it can’t be—

The Goblet spits out a smoking slip of paper. Celestino yanks it from the air and unfolds it. The quiet in the Hall is horrible, impermeable. Celestino holds the paper to his face and squints.

“From Hogwarts,” and Yuuri’s vision and hearing and base sense of being are gone all of a sudden, and he floats back from his eyes into the deepest recess of his skull,

“ _Yuuri Katsuki!_ ”


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! so i know there are quite a few hp aus out there by now but i'm definitely continuing this one. next chapter should be within a month!
> 
> i'm deviating from the hp canon a bit in places because why not, i want to
> 
> first task is next chapter!

He can hear applause—it’s distant and roaring, drumming around his skull, bringing him back to himself. Phichit is nudging him towards the staff table—but he can’t move.

It feels as though every last drop of life in him is draining from his blood and soaking through the soles of his shoes. Takeshi grabs him from behind in a hug that nearly sweeps him off his feet, and the whole Gryffindor table is standing and screaming and stamping their boots on the floor.

“Go,” whispers Phichit, “ _go!”_ He gives Yuuri another sharp nudge. Yuuri stumbles towards the staff table in a daze, more aware than he’s ever thought possible of the eyes on him. He reaches the door—opens it—nearly falls through into the small, portrait-filled room beyond.

Viktor sits on a wooden bench by the crackling fireplace, yelling things Yuuri can’t understand at Yuri Plisetsky, who has his arms crossed in defiance.

“ _Yura—_ _Ty sobirayesh’_ _sya ubit’_ _sebya!”_ he pleads. He slams his hands down onto his thighs in exasperation when Yuri only huffs and turns away.

Viktor then notices Yuuri, standing hesitantly by the door. “Uh—“ Yuuri starts. “What’s—should I—“

“He is only _fifteen_ ,” Viktor mutters. He jabs his thumb roughly at Yuri. “I am telling him he will kill himself doing this.”

Yuuri looks at Yuri, still crossing his arms. The Beauxbatons champion does look much younger than the rest of them— _but how did he get past the Age Line, then?_ Yuuri wonders. _Did someone else enter for him?_   _And why on Earth did the Goblet choose him?_

Feltsman storms into the room, forcing Yuuri aside. Lilia, Celestino, and the Ministry women follow behind. “He is too young!” Feltsman roars. “You must let it choose another!”

“ _Yakov—“_ Lilia mutters warily.

“He will be _hurt!_ Make the damned thing choose another one from Beauxbatons—“

Celestino steps into the room’s center. “I am afraid, Yakov, that the Goblet’s fires have already gone out. However I’m sure Madam Baranovskaya wouldn’t be opposed to picking another champion herself in the interest of Mister Plisetsky’s safety—“

“ _NO!_ ” screams Yuri. All heads turn to him as he stands up roughly from his bench. “The cup chose me! So I am—the best from Beauxbatons!” Yuuri notices that he pronounces the _s_ in _Beauxbatons._ “You said, Mister Cialdini, anyone who enters has to be prepared to do the Tournament the whole way!”

“Yes, I did, Yuri,” Celestino responds, “but I think the events of the past have shown that student safety is much more important than tradition in these situations.”

“This is _enough!_ ” Lilia shouts firmly. “The Goblet says he is the best, that he is the most qualified of all my students to do this Tournament. He is perfectly capable of keeping himself safe—he will compete!” Yakov forces out the front half of a word before Lilia stops him. “He is _my_ student now, Yakov, not yours!”

The tension in the room is thick enough to support the weight of one of Lilia’s flying horses. Yuri is nearly shaking with desperation, Viktor with rage. The witches and wizards in the numerous portraits shuffle uncomfortably from foot to foot.

“Wait,” says one of the Ministry women, “he’s only fifteen?”

“It does not matter! He put his name in—now he will face the consequences! He _will_ compete!” hisses Lilia. The Ministry woman looks uneasy, but seems to concede.

“Very well then—Champions, gather together, please.” Yuuri joins Viktor and Yuri in an armchair next to their bench. “The first task tests your ability in the face of fear and uncertainty. Telling you what it is would rather spoil the effect, I’m afraid. However, the task will take place on the twenty-fourth of November, so you have plenty of time to prepare as you see fit. Additionally, due to the taxing nature of the Tournament, you may choose to exempt yourself from end-of-year and state exams,” the woman explains. Yuuri nods along blankly, a creeping shiver dripping down his back.

He doesn’t do well with fear. It crumples him up and makes him cry, sometimes, before the bigger matches when he thinks nobody else is looking. It’s what keeps him awake into the mornings near the end of the year—he’ll fail his finals, he’ll lose the Snitch in the final game. His team will scatter and lose its spark and it’ll be _his_ fault.

_I can’t even handle intra-school Quidditch—how am I going to handle this?_

They’re dismissed after that. Yakov and Lilia and their respective champions leave in opposite directions, and Yuuri shuffles up through the now-empty Great Hall and back to Gryffindor Tower.

The whole house is waiting for him in the common room. Their excitement hits him like a well-placed stunning spell as soon as the portrait swings open—he smells butterbeer and hot meat, maybe some more of the meat pastries nicked from the kitchens. The erratic waving of a Gryffindor flag nearly knocks his glasses off, and the screams of congratulations are near deafening.

Someone has tuned up a radio to the WWR, and it’s blasting a heartless pop-y cover of some old landmark hit of the Hobgoblins’. People shout his name on all sides, and shove their arms out to jostle him, and everyone is so loud and so fantastically in Yuuri’s face that he can’t hear a word they’re saying.

The evening goes by fast, soundtracked by bland acoustic pop that can barely be heard anyway through the raucous voices. Takeshi specifically says something to Yuuri at one point, and so does Leo, but Yuuri forgets it all within minutes. It’s like all the Quidditch parties of the past—too loud and much too bright, and when Yuuri has danced and moshed to the trash pop so much that his legs have gone numb, and has been stuffed full of meat pastry (they’re called pirozhki, he learns) and drowned in butterbeer, only then is he finally allowed to retreat to the comfortable quiet of his dorm with one final congratulations from everyone present.

He pulls his clothes off. They stink of butterbeer—some 5th year smashed a bottle over him. Yuuri runs his hands through his stiff and sticky hair and finds a little piece of glass nesting near his scalp. His limbs are too slack to drag himself to the shower, so he throws on his pajamas and promises himself one in the morning.

He falls asleep that night to thoughts of fear and uncertainty and N.E.W.T.S and an actual Hobgoblins song, with real guitars and everything, blaring from downstairs.

And he has the dream again.

Not the Viktor dream, though there is something of Viktor in the huddled man, in the bone-silver tint of his frazzled hair. The man stands, carrying the flies in his clothes up with him. They buzz rhythmically as he walks towards Yuuri—or through him, or around him, for his perspective shifts so much that depth and space are useless here. There’s a door there, with watery light shining around the edges, and the man presses his fingertips to it and pushes it open with a low stony scrape. Something shuffles behind him. Something raw and rotten clicks and gurgles and claws. The door swings fully open—

 Yuuri wakes drenched in sweat for the second night in a row, and forces himself to the shower. It’s almost breakfast time anyways and the stale butterbeer in his hair is starting to reek.

He stays outside in the courtyard nearly the whole day—there’s nothing else to do. Some of his friends are going down to Hogsmeade, but he doesn’t feel like Hogsmeade today, so he settles down on a high stony wall between two decorative columns and takes out _Variations in the Validity of Golpalott’s Third Law,_ with the fourth book of a seven-tome biography series on Harry Potter to set it on. The essay comes along slowly but steadily, and he finishes with ample time to ponder fear and uncertainty before lunch.

The more Yuuri thinks of the task, the more his gut sears with stress and regret. It’s an almost painful line of thought—what if he had never bothered to arrange a Quidditch match on Saturday, and never tried to talk to JJ in the Great Hall, and never run into Viktor, and never slipped his hand over the lip of that idiotic fucking Goblet? What then? Oh, he’d be _just fine_ if he had a spine and could still function like a normal person within the vicinity of Viktor Nikiforov—

But he doesn’t, and he can’t, because Viktor is walking under the swaying branches of the dogwood in the courtyard and right up to him and Yuuri’s chest locks up and he can feel his heartbeat in his fingernails.

His hair is down, and it really does go to his waist.

Viktor stops in front of him and holds out his hand. Yuuri stares at it, at how soft and smooth it looks, and at the immaculate nails. Their liquid sheen is too bright to be natural, and Yuuri realizes then that _Viktor paints his nails._

He realizes too, entirely too late, that Viktor wants to shake his hand. “I’m sorry—I haven’t introduced myself properly yet, I don’t think? I was not very pleasant last night—I apologize.”

Yuuri looks at his own right hand, and thinks, _I am about to touch Viktor Nikiforov with this._ And he brings it to meet Viktor’s—

Viktor’s hands are as soft as they look, which is incredible for someone who spends hours every day on a broom; he must use some potion on them—and they’re so warm and strong and life-filled and Yuuri can’t believe he’s actually touching Viktor Nikiforov, so he lets his arm fall slack and get shook with the most erratic force Yuuri’s ever seen out of a handshake.

“I am Viktor Nikiforov,” says Viktor Nikiforov. “You can call me Vitya if you want—you might have heard of me, I don’t know—I play—uh—Quidditch.”

_Yeah, yeah, I know, believe me… I know…_

In a rare stroke of genius on his part, Yuuri decides to say something back instead of sitting there drooling. All he’s able to manage, though, is a hideously broken string of phrases akin to the spoken equivalent of falling down the stairs. “I—was at the World Cup—and you were in it, so—I saw you—there, and all—I play Quidditch too, so—I’m a Seeker actually—we do these little tournaments here, nothing big, though.”

Viktor nods along to all of this, his face lighting up with pure, childlike delight when Yuuri mentions that he’s a Seeker too. He smiles, and this close Yuuri can see in angelic detail how the corners of his eyes crinkle and how his lips form a heart. And, and—there are freckles on his cheeks. Yuuri has never noticed this before and he doesn’t know how but Viktor has _freckles_ , faint little bunches of cinnamon-speck dots that lift when he smiles.

Yuuri is no longer alive. He is dead. Viktor has killed him.

“Lovely!” exclaims the murderer. “I don’t think I got your name, though…?”

“Yuuri—Yuuri Katsuki,” Yuuri stammers.

“Nice to meet you, Yuuri—does it work if I call you Yuura, or no?”

“That’s—fine! Yeah, go ahead, I like it!”

Viktor punctuates all of his responses with smiles. “Great! I will—see you later, Yuura!” he chirps. Yuuri notices the slightest blush across Viktor’s _(freckled!)_ cheeks as he turns off and leaves, hair bouncing and splitting up the sunlight.

_I forgot to ask for his autograph_ , Yuuri thinks numbly, as his brain heals.

That night there are no nightmares—only a sunny fountain of hair, and soft hands, and cinnamon freckles.

The days leading to the first task pass sometimes slowly, and sometimes not, like time is a little bit broken. Yuuri wonders if Viktor did it—that supernatural quality to him hasn’t faded yet, and if there’s anyone Yuuri knows that could break time so badly it never recovered it’s Viktor. Viktor, who Yuuri is still partially convinced is part Veela, who hasn’t talked to Yuuri since the courtyard, who huddles away in his deathly ship and only emerges for meals and exercise. Yuuri sees him out sometimes on his broom, flying over the Forbidden Forest because nobody’s yet told him he can’t.

At one point the champions go to have their wands examined, an event Yuuri struggles to explain to Phichit through a relentless barrage of innuendo coming from the Hufflepuff. In the end he gives up, because _he_ can’t even say it without laughing, and part of him wonders how a group of kids who still laugh at dick jokes are expected to fight off life-threatening danger with no assistance whatsoever. And for other people’s _amusement,_ at that—the more Yuuri thinks about it, the more messed up the whole tournament seems, but he keeps quiet. Griping about the morality of it isn’t going to get him anywhere.

An initial plus-side to the whole situation, besides Viktor, of course, is all the attention he’s getting. At first, at least. It’s like after a decisive Gryffindor victory, only on a much larger scale—People cheer for Yuuri in the hallways, ask for his autograph. He realizes he enjoys the unfettered knowledge that everyone in the school is in awe of him, even if that awe is decidedly misplaced—and he wonders initially whether that’s a very Gryffindor attitude to have. Then again, he doesn’t put much stock in the knowledge and understanding of psychological nuance of a hat, and lets himself enjoy his quasi-celebrity status guilt-free.

_This is what it must be like_ , he thinks, _to be Viktor._

But as the days run and drag along the attention grows tiring, and having to ask people to move out of his way so he can get to class trips up his social ineptitude something terrible. Within a week Yuuri feels horribly sorry for Viktor.

Within a week, Yuuri only has nineteen days left to stop feeling fear.

Or whatever it is he’s supposed to do for the first task—“fear and uncertainty” could mean anything. He rules out dragons, mermaids, and a murder maze, though; the three tasks from the last Tournament. As luck would have it the fourth book in Harry Potter’s biography series goes into almost excruciating detail about the events surrounding it. It’s both a blessing and a curse, because Yuuri couldn’t give less of a shit about Harry Potter’s teenaged angst— _how damned long did they interview him for to write this thing?_ he wonders—but at least he has more of an idea of what to expect, which is certain death or grievous injury at the least.

He’s screwed.

JJ continues to host Quidditch matches with him on the weekends, but even Quidditch isn’t working much to take his mind off things. Noticing this, JJ offers to duel him to help him prepare, an offer Yuuri turns down at first but later accepts, provided he gets permission from Professor Okukawa. Dueling isn’t technically allowed, but should be fine in a controlled setting, or so Yuuri hopes.

He catches her after Transfiguration one day and asks—

“If you’re interesting in _dueling,_ Yuuri, you should really work something out with Feltsman,”she answers him. “They teach them at Durmstrang—not saying I approve of it, but you have to do what you have to do in your situation. I could talk to him for you if you like; you could practice against that Niliforv, or whatever his name is.”

Yuuri says nothing to _Niliforv,_ which is the worst permutation of Viktor’s name he’s ever heard. It seems strange that another champion would be allowed to help him prepare, but he nods his consent cautiously. When he returns to JJ he explains that he’ll be up against Viktor instead, which JJ seems mildly jealous of, but understands regardless.

And so, just days later, Viktor approaches him again after class.

Yuuri stumbles and nearly runs into a wall. The hallway is otherwise empty, and he has no idea how Viktor could’ve found him here. He curses himself—he’s spent a week in Viktor’s company; he should be used to him by now.

“Yuura!” Viktor greets him brightly. His hair’s tied back, which is an honest shame. “You would like to _duel?_ ”

“Yeah—I was thinking we could—help each other out, if you want.”

“Yes, of course—we can go out by the ship.”

Yuuri hesitates. Going too close to the ship would mean having the entire student envoy from Durmstrang watching him, plus Yakov. If something were to go wrong they’d be sure to take Viktor’s side—and Yuuri realizes in that instant how little he should trust Viktor.

Perhaps the biography has poisoned him, but Yuuri _is_ aware of Durmstrang’s strong reputation for teaching the Dark Arts. He’s certain that the Viktor he knows from interview after interview from countless magazines and newspapers is earnest enough not to drag him off somewhere to maim him, but that certainty means nothing in the face of danger—and Yuuri’s never been in greater danger in his life. Sure Viktor’s been all smiles since his arrival, but eternal glory is one hell of a motivator.

“…We could go also in a classroom if you want,” Viktor suggests. He’s noticed Yuuri’s wariness.

Yuuri squints and nods slowly. “Yeah. I’d prefer that.” The sound of his own voice, so _confident,_ sends little shivers down Yuuri’s spine—and the two head off to find an empty classroom.  They’ll be alone there, but at least it’s on Yuuri’s ground, and no matter how much he shouldn’t, Yuuri trusts Viktor almost completely.

Viktor locates one that looks promising—the classroom is truly empty, with no desks, no furniture at all. No Peeves, either, which is always a plus. At its front are a set of stone steps leading up to a raised portion for a teacher’s desk.

“This is alright?”

“Yeah, looks great,” Yuuri confirms. Viktor closes the door behind them, shutting them in together, and hangs his fur cape on a peg.

Yuuri can’t say he hasn’t had at least one fantasy of being in an empty classroom with Viktor Nikiforov, but this isn’t how he imagined it happening.

Viktor sits on the granite steps, and Yuuri follows suit, leaving a good foot of space between them. “What do you think we should practice? Or, what do they teach you here?” he asks. There’s light spilling in from a window behind them, and every one of Viktor’s freckles is in full highlight. For a moment Yuuri forgets everything he’s ever learned from day one.

“Mostly defensive spells. I know stunning, disarming, little bit of other stuff.” Yuuri pauses, unsure of whether to ask what he wants to ask. _Viktor’s probably expecting it anyways—might as well go ahead._ “I don’t mean to be rude, but—you learn a lot of the Dark stuff at Durmstrang, don’t you?”

Viktor pushes himself up at the word _Dark_ and steps in front of Yuuri, towering over him. Yuuri freezes—he’s really done it now, hasn’t he?

But Viktor just stretches out his arms and kneels at face height. His face betrays no anger, only conviction. “There is no Dark magic, Yuuri,” Viktor says softly. “It is only—how you use it, that matters. It is ridiculous not to learn this spell or that one because it is ‘ _Dark.’_ ”

Viktor’s face is mere inches from Yuuri’s now, and he can feel Viktor’s warm breath on his nose and cheeks. Despite the distraction he manages to formulate a response. “I know, I know, they’ve told _us_ that too. I don’t think any less of you—uh—Vitya.”

“But still they do not _teach_ you! Just _defensive spells_ are useless when you must really _defend_ yourself.”

“Well you have to understand that this school has a history of teaching the wrong sorts of spells to the wrong sorts of people—“

“What, so you will not use a knife at your dinner because ‘the wrong sort of people’ could _stab_ someone with it?” Viktor huffs. He’s moved back from his awkward squat now to slouch on the floor in front of the steps. A strand of hair falls into his face. He blows it away.

“A bread knife isn’t going to do the kind of instant damage something like the Cruciatus can—“

“All right, that is _enough._ It doesn’t matter—let’s just practice now. All that matters is we can face whatever is going to try killing us,” Viktor cuts in.

Yuuri sighs. “Sorry,” he mutters.

“It is okay! I am not going to curse you for disagreeing with me, Yuura. Durmstrang isn’t teaching us to be _evil_ — Should we do disarming to warm up?”

They spend the next hour or so throwing all sorts of spells at each other. Yuuri learns that there are lots of spells which Viktor pronounces differently, or uses a different word for entirely, and hearing foreign words in Viktor’s smooth voice is enough to catch Yuuri off guard at times. Which would be incredibly dangerous were they fighting for real—beneath his vibrant flourish, Viktor is a powerful wizard. He often darts and dives and twists out of spells’ reach instead of blocking magically, leaving him to remain on a permanent and unstoppable offensive, and his movements are lightning-fast and unpredictable.

Yuuri falters in the beginning, confused and threatened by Viktor’s endless assault and jarring misdirection, but all his schooling hasn’t been for naught. Though Viktor’s attacks are incredibly powerful—Yuuri senses an undercurrent of near lethality from every spell—Yuuri’s own defense is equally so, he’s surprised to find. Though he’s barely able to get a spell in edgewise, his defenses are only broken once.

Viktor smiles when the light through the window turns orange, and pulls the tie from his hair. It gushes down over his shoulders, sharply silver under the beam of garish sunset from outside. “You are _very good_ , Yuura!” he pants. Sweat drops from his nose.

Yuuri colors under Viktor’s praise. “Thanks,” he replies. He can tell he’s thoroughly worn Viktor out—that can be attributed more to Viktor’s constant dancelike movement, but he still feels accomplished.

“You’re the best defender I have ever seen—and you are very—nice to watch.” _The best defender I have ever seen?_ Well, there’s something, Yuuri thinks. Viktor grabs for his cloak and swings it over his shoulders. “You are a Seeker too, yes?”

“Uh, yeah…”

“I would love to see you fly sometime. Maybe tomorrow?”

Before Yuuri can respond, the door slams open. Viktor jumps back, startled, to make way for a fuming Professor Okukawa, Yakov and Celestino in tow.

“Explain yourself,” she hisses. She crosses her arms and stares Yuuri down. He shudders—Professor Okukawa is in every regard more terrifying than Viktor.

Viktor answers for the both of them. “We were _practicing for the Tournament_ —you have said we can, yes?”

“I meant under _supervision_! Somewhere we could _watch you_ , and, I don’t know, make sure nobody ended up hurt or dead!” Professor Okukawa roars. “We’ve been searching for you two for ages—when Feltsman sent you out, Nikifov, he didn’t intend for you to drag Yuuri off into a room alone! For heavens’ sake, we don’t know what you’ve even been doing! How are we to know you haven’t spent the last hour—plotting something!” The manner in which _plotting something_ is delivered suggests a belief on the part of Professor Okukawa’s that the two champions have been doing something entirely more scandalous than plotting something. Yuuri notes this, and tries to avoid letting his mind stray down that path, which is incredibly difficult now that the idea’s in his head.

“Here,” states Viktor definitively. He holds out his wand and aims it at the floor. “ _Prior Incantato!”_ he intones firmly. A white flash bolts down and strikes the stone—it’s a harmless visual representation of the last spell Viktor cast.

“That proves nothing.”

Viktor crosses his arms. “It is the Stinging Hex!”

Celestino steps forward to make his opinion known. “I believe Mister Nikiforov—that is his name, Professor, Ni-ki-fo-rov—and Mister Katsuki have been earnestly trying to improve their skills in preparation for the Tournament. However, boys, in the future I ask that this type of practice be conducted where a qualified witch or wizard can observe you. You might also consider inviting Mister Plisetsky, as I imagine he’d enjoy the opportunity to practice too.”

Professor Okukawa grumbles alongside Yakov. They’re both clearly proficient in the art. “Come along, then—you should both be at dinner.”

As Viktor and Yuuri follow the teachers out, Yuuri notices a red figure at the end of the hall. The figure darts out of sight quickly, but Yuuri gets a glimpse of his face—it’s the Durmstrang boy who always sits at the Ravenclaw table, the one, Yuuri realizes, that he saw enter his name in the Goblet after Viktor. Or at least, Yuuri thinks it is. He wonders what the boy’s doing— _trying to spy?_ _But why, when both Viktor and Yakov are already here?_

As they walk to the Great Hall, Viktor stays in step with Yuuri. “I _would_ like to fly with you, Yuura. Tomorrow is Saturday—I will meet you on the pitch at twelve. If you want.”

Yuuri smiles at him sheepishly. “I do want—that. To play with you. Quidditch. Uh—“ he stammers. “I’m not that good, though.”

“If you fly as beautiful as you duel then you are excellent,” Viktor assures him warmly. Yuuri grabs the bannister to keep himself from stumbling down 3 steps at once. The effect of Viktor plainly hasn’t worn off, then, which adds even more credence to the Veela theory.

When they reach the Great Hall Viktor splits and heads to the Slytherin table again, where his usual guard is assembled. Yuuri sees the boy who was watching around the corner at his usual place at the Ravenclaw table, among the Beauxbatons students.

He sits down to an immediate reaction from Phichit—“Where the hell were you, mate?”

“Long story. You know how I asked Okukawa about the whole dueling thing, and then she said I could—“

But Yuuri’s cut off by the rough slam of a pair of pale hands on the table to his left. He turns to see Yuri Plisetsky, gray Beauxbatons garb hanging off him like a drape over a tree branch. “You are dueling with Viktor, hmm? And you are not telling me about it?” he shrieks.

The Gryffindor table turns slowly to stare at Yuri. He scowls and continues his tirade. “You think I am too _weak_ to train with you?”

“Um—you can come next time, if you want—nobody thinks you’re weak, mate…” Yuuri mumbles. Yuri glares at him before storming off to the Ravenclaw table. Yuuri wonders how he knew about the duel.

The rest of dinner is spent explaining the day’s events to his peers. He leaves out the fact that Viktor’s going to fly with him tomorrow—he’d rather not be observed by everyone in the school.

“So he told you you were _nice to watch_?” Takeshi asks. Yuuri now regrets including that particular detail. “Sounds like he fancies you.”

“I think that was just a language barrier thing,” Yuuri responds. There’s no way in hell Viktor is actually attracted to him, and it’ll only hurt him in the long run to entertain those types of thoughts.

When Yuuri wakes up the next morning he is hit instantly by two things. One, that Viktor is going to fly with him today, and two, that he’s already arranged one of his usual Saturday skirmishes. He doesn’t know how he could’ve forgotten about the arrangement entirely, and he can’t very well call it off because he wants to buddy up to Viktor Nikiforov. Yet some mental block prevents him from entertaining the idea of calling it off with Viktor—Yuuri isn’t sure if he’s worried about being rude or just doesn’t want to lose the opportunity.

So that leaves one option: Viktor will have to play with the rest of them. That, or Yuuri could try and convince the Hogwarts kids to let him and Viktor do their own thing off to one side, or he and Viktor could go somewhere else entirely, but Yuuri would feel awful about abandoning his players.

At breakfast Yuuri catches up with Viktor before he can sit down. The throng of admirers he has to wade through to reach Viktor is larger than his own typical following, but once they see what he’s doing they part to give him an aisle, and then stretch out to form a wide circle around the pair, expecting a confrontation of some sort.

It would be horribly rude to tell them off, but Yuuri wants to regardless. Thankfully Viktor does it for him—“Can you move away, please?” The crowd disperses, whispering.

“How are you, Yuura?” Viktor asks. His voice is low and quiet enough that the nearby Slytherin table can’t listen in. He’s in Muggle clothes again, with a gray long-sleeve shirt rolled up to show his powerful forearms.

“Fine, thanks—listen, um, so when you asked me about Quidditch today I forgot that I already had a sort of informal match arranged with me and some players from other houses, so—“

“You are team captain, yes? You want to use me like a _learning opportunity_?” Viktor asks. The tone of his voice is mildly skeptical. Yuuri winces internally and tries to correct his mistake. Viktor must get this a lot, being shown off and used as an example. _JJ’s probably asked him to help out already,_ Yuuri thinks.

“No, no, I was just going to see if you wanted to play a regular game with us—if that’s not alright we can move it to another day…”

Viktor’s brows knit, and his cinnamon-specked cheeks crowd his eyes. His irises flick quickly both ways before he steps closer to Yuuri. “I wanted it to just be us, Yuura.” He sounds stung.

Yuuri’s heartbeat slams into a wall, stops, takes a moment to re-adjust. He closes his eyes and breathes for just a second.

Viktor really wants to be alone with him, does he? Takeshi’s offhand comment— _sounds like he fancies you_ —flies around Yuuri’s skull. Yuuri is his own worst enemy, leading himself on like this. It’s cultural differences is all. Viktor wants to be his friend, and Yuuri’s not going to stop him.

“Yeah, so do I. Um—tell you what, what if we all play together today and then tomorrow we can go off alone?” Yuuri offers.

Viktor thins his lip to the side and nods. “I will be Seeker for the other team, then. But—that is all. I will not help your players with anything. I will not sign their posters.”

“Just having fun?”

“Just having fun,” Viktor agrees.

Yuuri leaves with a wave to arrange things with JJ. He looks rather irate, Yuuri notices, shoehorned to the very edge of the Slytherin table with Durmstrang students next to and across from him talking loudly in German.

He’s shocked at first when Yuuri explains the situation. As Yuuri thought he’s been trying to get Viktor to play Quidditch with them for ages, but Viktor has apparently been blatantly ignoring him. With reluctance he agrees to not make any fanfare of Viktor’s participation, or to let anyone ask for autographs. He’s clearly excited, though, to have Viktor as his Seeker for the day, as the last Slytherin Seeker left last year and neither the Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff Seekers can be counted upon to show up, which often leaves him filling that position with his best Chaser.

There’s a steady procession from the Great Hall down to the pitch after breakfast. JJ has promised to block off the stands as much as he can, and so far nobody but he and Yuuri know Viktor is coming. But when Viktor starts following the march of regular players down to the pitch a slew of fans follow him, which provokes his protective entourage to tag along as well. Soon it’s apparent that there might be a problem.

Yuuri is first to the pitch, and when two Hufflepuff Chasers arrive he stations them at the general entrance with instructions to deny entry to any of Viktor’s fan horde. He doesn’t envy them, but they both have an air of severity about them that should be enough to deter at least a few people. Yuuri himself slips inside the locker room to prepare himself for the match.

After several minutes of sitting on the bench he hears a commotion approaching, and pokes his head out to see a small army advancing over the terrain. Viktor is at the head, the reluctant general in gray, broom in hand. He walks with forward intensity—probably trying to outpace everyone crowding him, but it sends a chill down Yuuri’s spine regardless.

Yuuri runs to him and motions him quickly towards the locker room. The two Hufflepuffs by the door clench their fists in a manner more suggestive of Beaters than Chasers. Viktor darts past them and into the room, slamming the door. A collective whine rises from the crowd. Yuuri stands, unsure of how to get them to disperse.

A red-haired Durmstrang girl steps forward. “You want them gone?” she mutters. Yuuri nods sharply.

She and the rest of Viktor’s friends turn and disperse the fans with a remarkable efficiency, waving their arms and shouting as though they’ve done it thousands of times. Yuuri gives a grateful thumbs-up.

“Do you lot have to do this often?” he asks.

“Not at Durmstrang,” the girl replies. The school’s name sounds more like _Durmshrang_ the way she pronounces it—Yuuri’s heard several other of its students say the name the same way. _That’s how it’s really pronounced, then,_ he supposes. “Everyone there is—knows not to bother him. But he asked us on the boat to please keep people away. He does not like so many people—is too loud—and sometimes they try touching him, which he hates very much. When he has competitions we go there sometimes and do the same thing, but the team and officials help with that—here there is only us.”

“That’s—really nice of you guys,” Yuuri tells her. Viktor doesn’t like being touched, then. He’ll keep that in mind.

A black-haired boy cuts in with “You are Yuuri Katsuki, yes? The champion?” Yuuri nods. “Okay, well, Vitya thinks you are—“

“ _Zhora!_ ” chides the girl. She whirls him around by his shoulders and pushes him back towards the castle. “We are going now—we will see you flying sometime else.” The rest of the Durmstrang kids, confused, follow her up the green.

Yuuri watches them go, wondering what it is exactly Viktor thinks of him. Weak? Strange? Just another annoying fan? If Yuuri was Viktor he knows that’s what _he_ would think of himself. Hell, it’s what he thinks of himself now.

He grits his teeth and enters the locker room.

Viktor is pulling on a pair of fingerless leather Quidditch gloves. There’s nobody else inside so far. He smiles at Yuuri when he enters, his broom propped carefully against the bench. It’s a Firebolt Supreme, and a brand-new one at that—Yuuri remembers that a rabid South African fan at the World Cup set Viktor’s old one on fire just three days before the game started.

That strikes Yuuri suddenly— _I’m about to play Quidditch with the Seeker who won the World Cup,_ he thinks. But it’s becoming harder for him to make the connection between the Viktor in front of him ( _his_ Viktor) and World-Cup Viktor, who had, on that field, all the space-forged qualities of a god. There were statues, even—little idols. It was apparent that the whole game of Quidditch began and ended with Viktor Nikiforov.

_This_ Viktor is enchantingly beautiful, yes, but he’s _human_ —or, well, half-human. Warm to the touch, with cute freckles and really nice hair, and a group of friends following him everywhere to prevent people from touching him or getting too loud. It’s as though the full form of Viktor, both the flesh-and-blood person and the comet, is too much for Yuuri to process, and so his eyes have shaped and relegated Viktor’s silvery light into some farce of a visible spectrum that hides all the most beautiful colors.

“Are they gone?” Viktor asks.

“Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“It is not your fault,” Viktor says. He tightens the wrist strap on his glove. “They are not so bad, actually. They come too close to me is all. And _talk_ , all the time, when I don’t want to listen.”

“Do you mind all the attention?” Yuuri sits down next to him, taking in the immaculate quality of his broom. Yuuri’s own is an older Yajarushi his grandmother sent him for his birthday several years back—a high-quality model to be sure, but it’s getting old and worn regardless of Yuuri’s efforts to maintain it.

“It is nice most of the time. I am used to it, and people are not often rude.” The other glove is on now, and Viktor starts to adjust the stirrups on his broom. “I know all the time that I am doing a good job, and everybody loves me, which is very satisfying,” he muses. A pause—he yanks a stirrup back. “Hey, you know what I think about being Seeker? Since we are about to play.”

“What?”

“I think the—the—the little—how is it called—“

“Snitch?” Yuuri supplies helpfully. _Where is this going?_ he wonders, as he checks his own broom over.

“Yes, that! It is too much points. Why even have the other players when one ball gives you all the points and ends the game? In this way the Chasers and everyone can be awful, but if the Seeker is good your team will win. You want to hear how I think it should be?” From the impassioned tone of Viktor’s voice Yuuri doubts refusal on his part will do anything, so he agrees.

Viktor dives then into a long-winded explanation of his ideal re-structured form of Quidditch, which involves seven separate Snitches for twenty points apiece. It would give the Seeker more of a challenge, he says, and give more importance to the efforts of the other players. Other main points of Viktor’s overhaul include the possible increasing of Snitch point gains at higher levels of competition, though “any Keeper what is letting in as many goals as teams are sometimes scoring must be fired,” and the ability of any non-Seeker to catch a Snitch for a five-point penalty if they see it. Or, at least, this is what Yuuri _thinks_ Viktor’s other main points are, because as his rant runs its course his words begin to run into each other.

During all this there are players trickling into the locker room, each startling on sight of Viktor and then angling themselves to listen to him talk. Yuuri too listens in fascination as Viktor goes on, because his first proposal was one of many, apparently. He suggests forms of the sport where the Keeper doubles as Seeker, where the Beaters are Seekers, where every single player is allowed to catch the Snitch and the Seeker doesn’t exist, where the Snitch is worth nothing and the Seeker is a Chaser who decides when to stop play. Finally, after at least fifteen minutes of intense dissection of every possible Snitch-related improvement to the game of Quidditch, Viktor finishes with, “but all of that is not ideal, of course, because Quidditch should not have the Snitch, and Seekers should have their own sport.”

“Wow,” says Yuuri, before Viktor can elaborate on a solo Seeker sport, which will doubtless take another fifteen minutes, “you’ve thought about this a lot, haven’t you?”

Viktor beams.  The room is full now, with most of the Gryffindor team and at least six Hufflepuffs, including the two Chasers Yuuri had standing guard earlier. All of them are silent and staring, enraptured, at Viktor.

“Oh, hello, everyone,” he says.

They manage seven games—because Viktor catches the Snitch every time, without fail, within minutes. It’s not even a competition.

Yuuri doesn’t know why he’s surprised, as he slumps in the stands watching the slow progress of the sunset over the Astronomy Tower. It’s just about dinnertime—Viktor will go back to his friends at the Slytherin table and tell them how he squashed Yuuri like a lacewing fly, how Yuuri never stood a chance against him. How no one does.

He feels the blood in his face hitch forward. His lip curls, holding in a sob—but he shouldn’t be crying at this. Viktor is the best there is, he reminds himself, and at the very least Yuuri’s had the privilege of watching him fly. Viktor has humiliated the greatest Seekers in the world.

And now he’s humiliated Yuuri too.

Everyone else has long since gone. He’s alone with his thoughts—the _Vitya thinks_ _you are_ comes back to him. He fills in the possibilities in his head: Vitya thinks you are pitiful. Vitya thinks you are worthless. Vitya thinks you should just quit Quidditch already.

At dinner he says nothing, to anyone, the whole time.

On Sunday, as he leaves breakfast, Viktor asks when they’re going to meet.

Yuuri gives him a curious look. He’s already seen Yuuri fly—surely he knows that any competition they have will end in his winning without contest. “Do you—still want to?” asks Yuuri.

“Um, yes.”

Yuuri looks away. As illogical as it is—he couldn’t stand for Viktor to beat him again. His self-esteem is shot through already. “Sorry.”

“For what? I like watching you. I know I said it earlier but you _are_ very good,” Viktor tells him.

“Yeah, well, you’re better, so there’s no need to rub it in again, is there?” Yuuri spits. His tone is sharper than he intended—half of him regrets it. Half doesn’t.

Viktor lays a hand on his shoulder before he can walk away. “I—” Yuuri forcefully shrugs his hand off. He lowers it. “Sorry. I thought to be—easy with you would be an insult.”

Yuuri stares at his feet. Students part around them, rapids around a rock. Viktor holds his hands behind his back and sways.

“If you really want to spend time with me, let’s just go to Hogsmeade. I’d rather not be humiliated again.”

“Is that on the town?”

“That—that _is_ the town.”

“Ah.” Viktor shuffles awkwardly out of the way of a passing Ravenclaw. Yuuri awaits his answer, drawn closer to him by the closing of the gap in the crowd.

He sucks in a bit of his cheek and bites it, switching his eyes to the side. “I thought we could try the Seekers-only game I made up—I will be easy, really; I just want to see how it works—“

“Well I _don’t_ , if you don’t mind me saying.” Viktor wraps his arms around his ribs defensively, startled. Yuuri realizes he’s all but yelled, and Viktor doesn’t like noise…

“At this point it’s Hogsmeade, take it or leave it, _Vitya,”_ he demands, keeping his voice low. Viktor gives in quietly.

Yuuri drags him over the grounds, which have seen powdery autumn snowfall overnight, and down to the edge of downtown Hogsmeade. Viktor is meek and silent behind him, his footsteps drawing the barest crunch from the snow-covered cobble as he lets Yuuri lead him along High Street.

Viktor’s hurt, Yuuri can tell. Yuuri’s never seen him this quiet—normally he can’t go a minute without talking. It’s not right of Yuuri to take out his upset feelings over his own inadequacy on Viktor, he knows, and his innards twist. He hasn’t known himself to be this cold in the past. The stress of the Tournament is getting to him.

They stop outside of the brightly-decorated storefront of Gladrags, where suspiciously Christmasy tinsel is strung between the mannequins in the window. Viktor gives the robes on display an appraising sweep.

“There’s a Quidditch shop over that way,” Yuuri says. It’s the first thing he’s said since their arrival in Hogsmeade. On the street corner a brass quartet plays a sharp and bouncing tune, obscured slightly by the wind down from the mountains.

“Can we go in here?” Viktor’s question is soft under the music and the wind and the morning chatter of passers-by, but Yuuri hears him all the same.

“Yeah—of course,” replies Yuuri. Viktor attempts a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, and it’s hard to tell that it’s even reached his mouth.

They enter. They browse. This Gladrags has two floors, unlike the three-floor original store in London, and it’s nowhere near as glitzy. Viktor seems to enjoy it, though—he tries on robe after robe, taking whatever he likes from both the men’s and women’s sections—and slowly he warms again, and his steady stream of bright comments returns, and the spite of the morning is near forgotten, though neither of them buy anything. There’s a grape dress shirt in silk that catches Viktor’s eye, but as it turns out he doesn’t have any British money on him. A stand outside the train station that does currency exchanges, luckily, but by the time they make it there Viktor has forgotten about the shirt.

Afterwards they head to Spintwitches, the Quidditch shop, which is just around the corner past the brass band. It’s not the only Quidditch shop in Hogsmeade’s historic downtown area, but it is the closest, and the most technically historic. While some of the bigger chain stores in town have more goods, and some of the smaller specialty shops have goods of higher quality, Spintwitches is Yuuri’s favorite for a number of reasons. Nowadays it’s less of a store for players and more of a store for cultural items surrounding the sport, but Yuuri loves it anyways.

 In the window—a poster of Viktor. The real Viktor grins slyly.

“It is _me,_ ” he exclaims. He points at the poster. The poster points back.

“Yeah,” says Yuuri, “that’s you, isn’t it?” It’s the same exact poster that Yuuri has in his dorm—the one he initially wanted to have Viktor sign.

Viktor clenches a laugh to the front of his teeth. “I think—Yuura, what if—I went in here and— _bought  it?_ ”

Yuuri grins at him. Viktor’s hair, easily his defining feature, is pinned up and tucked under a hat, so nobody has recognized him yet. But Yuuri knows for a fact the girl behind the counter at Spintwitches is a superfan. He’s eager to see how this goes.

Viktor hustles in the door as quietly as he can, and the girl inside barely glances up with the ding of the bell. Yuuri follows him past rows of spiritwear, broom care kits, and garish jewelry to a nook at the back where all the stuff related to specific players has been crammed. It’s dark and dusty back here, with the punk-rock revivalist group blaring through a wireless set on an old stool singing about getting drunk on firewhiskey and combusting. The whole back wall is entirely covered in posters. A good quarter are of Viktor.

While Viktor peruses the variations on his image, Yuuri hovers by a rack of robes. He spots one all-black number with VIKTOR NIKIFOROV printed in block grunge type on the back. Lovely. _Wonder if I could convince Viktor to buy_ that, Yuuri wonders, taking in the dark décor surrounding him. It’s been fun, over the past few years, watching Spintwitches’ slow development into a counter-culture hub—some of the merchandise in here isn’t related to Quidditch at all, and some of the patrons Yuuri sees frequenting the place have never played Quidditch in their lives.

There are two boys gazing up at the posters on the opposite side of the nook from Viktor. Yuuri doesn’t recognize them from Hogwarts—from the local state school, probably, which means they might have no idea about the Triwizard Tournament whatsoever, and no idea Viktor’s here either. One of them leans towards Viktor as he grabs at a poster of some singer—luckily, he doesn’t turn to look at Viktor’s face, and he safely selects a large-ish poster of himself and tucks it under his arm.

Yuuri takes one last look at the VIKTOR NIKIFOROV robe before heading up to the front counter, which is covered in anti-government stickers. Another radio is perched next to the cash register, playing the same song, and the woman bobs her head to it, eyes closed. Viktor rings a small bell next to the register and sets down his poster.

“That’s two Sickles,” says the woman. “And ten— _oh my God—_ “

Viktor smiles at her.

He ends up getting the poster for free, after signing another copy for the girl, who stutters a thanks and watches Viktor in mild awe as he and Yuuri leave. That was how Yuuri acted only a week ago, wasn’t it? A week ago he too was a blustering fan—but now he’s out on the town with Viktor, having a bit of fun, shopping around. Like a genuine friend.

It’s lunchtime now. Normally Yuuri ventures out of the historic district into the regular downtown to grab something quick, but this is Viktor’s first time in Hogsmeade, and to take him anywhere else than the Three Broomsticks would be an insult.

It’s packed, as it always is lunchtime on Sunday, with Hogsmeade residents and Hogwarts students alike. There’s going to be a wait, they’re told by a waiter—but Viktor takes off his cap then and sets his waterfall hair spilling, and says “You are sure you cannot make special arrangements?” and as it turns out there’s a two-person table by the hearth that just freed up, would that be okay, sirs?

Yuuri glances, embarrassed, at the mass of other people waiting to be seated.

“Yes, this is very good,” Viktor answers.

The waiter leads them to their table, which is right by the hearth indeed. The fire stains it a homely red, and the smell of spit-roasting meat makes Yuuri’s mouth water as the warmth washes over him. Viktor slides the poster of himself under his chair as he sits, and tucks up his hair again, strand by strand up into his hat with his fingertips.

“Do you want this?” Viktor asks. He motions under his seat. “Because I do not really.”

Before logic catches his words, Yuuri responds with “No thanks—I’ve already got that one.” He winces immediately—now he’s really gone and done it. If Viktor didn’t think of him as an obsessive fan before, he certainly does now.

Viktor looks startled as well, bottom lip frozen just below his rather sizeable front teeth. The loud chatter of the pub’s afternoon crowd swells.

A server comes to take their orders for drinks—Viktor has a cup of Earl Grey, despite Yuuri’s efforts on the way over to convince him to try Butterbeer. Blasphemy. Yuuri would say it if the mood weren’t so awkward. The server leaves.

“…Do you want me to sign it?”

“What?”

“Your poster. I will sign it.”

“I—“ Yuuri looks across the table at Viktor, at how his face is just as bright as ever, if a little red. Nothing about his demeanor suggests that he’s upset, but…

Yuuri braces himself then—he needs to say it. It needs to be said. “I—you can sign it if you want—it’s okay if you don’t,” he starts, and sighs. “I should’ve said I was a fan of yours, though, I should’ve. Sorry—“

“Yuura, it is fine—“

“I’ve been leading you on, I think. You came in thinking maybe here’s someone you can just be a normal person with, but I’m just as much a fan as that girl in Spintwitches if not more—“

“Yuura—“

“—and I’m sorry for this morning, also—I was angry at—myself, and I took it out on you for no reason, and between that and this and all the guilt-spirally ‘sorry’ shit I’m doing now, really I can understand if you’re done with me—“

“Yuura,” Viktor cuts in finally, “it is _fine_. I knew you were a fan from how you were when I introduced myself—it is—cute.”

Yuuri stops his self-flagellating spiel and stares at Viktor. Notably, his lips, from which, if Yuuri’s not mistaken, the words _it is cute_ in relation to _him_ just emerged.

“Cute?” Yuuri quavers.

Viktor’s hand flies to his eyes, rubbing them as he curls in on himself, embarrassed. Yuuri can see his broad smile though, his blush, and it sends every particle Yuuri comprises slamming through the wood-slat floor of the Three Broomsticks, down through the dirt, and straight and meteoric into the center of the Earth, where he promptly burns alive and dies.

_Vitya thinks you are—_

_The best defender he’s ever seen. Vitya thinks you are a beautiful duelist. Vitya thinks you are ‘nice to watch.’_

_Vitya thinks you are cute._

“Uh, yes—you are—I really think you are—cute,” Viktor mumbles. “Very cute. Like—“ he lifts his head from the protection of his arms—“the cutest person, ever, I have seen…”

The server brings their drinks. It’s fifteen minutes before they notice.

It’s another hour before they leave, into a new round of sugar-soft snow, hand in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fair warning, it doesn't stay this fluffy forever

**Author's Note:**

> prof. okukawa is minako if you didn't know


End file.
